Saudade
by Kyra4
Summary: How can someone make a place they don't actually live in feel like home? To the point where their absence… STERILIZES it, somehow? He doesn't know, and the ability for analytical thought has all but deserted him. He only knows it's true, and that it's breaking his heart. [Modern AU: short companion piece to The Sellsword]
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This was written to be my entry for the Saudade prompt during Janther Week, but for logistical reasons I had to wait to post it. I suppose that means it's not an "official" entry to Janther Week, but in any case, here it is, better late than never. As with all the Janther Week prompts, my interpretation was somewhat loose. Mostly what I took away from this one was a sense of longing for someone who has been... removed from you._

 _Modern AU. This is a companion piece to_ _The Sellsword_ _, which was co-authored by lareepqg and myself. The events of this 2-chapter ficlet fall in between the last chapter and the epilogue of that story (which is why I had to wait to post it.) This will probably not make a whole hell of a lot of sense to you unless you've read that one first. It's a free country and all, but just sayin'._

* * *

The demogorgon shirt still smells like her.

He sees it trailing over the footboard of his bed – it had very quickly become her favorite piece of loungewear when staying at his place – and he picks it up, fisting his hand in the well-worn material and raising it to his face.

Closing his eyes and inhaling her scent.

He doesn't cry, though. He hasn't cried since Pepper sent him home, standing her ground against him in a way that no one (except Jane) _ever_ does; insisting that he go and get some rest, that he's not doing himself, or Jane, or anyone _else_ for that matter, any favors in his current half-conscious, half- _delirious_ state.

So he'd come back here, defeated, for the first time in nearly a week – after making her promise, and promise _again_ , to contact him immediately should there be any change.

Any change at all.

And he's been drifting aimlessly through the rooms of his own home like a ghost, unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable in any meaningful way even to _think_ – but he hasn't cried. Not since stepping out of the elevator into his foyer.

Not, in point of fact, since it _happened_.

What he's feeling, this utter, soul-deep _desolation,_ goes beyond tears. Miles beyond.

No, he isn't weepy. Not remotely.

He's _empty_.

Without Jane, he's just… a shell.

He wanders through the spacious rooms of an abode that, for all its impressive square-footage, had never felt too big to him before…

Before Jane had entered his life like a flame-topped whirlwind, uninvited, unlooked for, but oh so desperately _needed_ – and changed _everything_.

 _Are you my… my prostitute?_

He groans aloud. What he would give to hear her say those ridiculous words now. What he would give to hear her say anything, anything.

It feels too big _now_ , this space, cavernous and echoing, as empty as _he_ is – well no, not quite. Not _that_ empty.

He ignores dozens of phone calls and texts from friends and family members – his aunts are especially persistent – only glancing at his phone's screen to make sure it isn't Pepper before hitting _decline_.

Passing through the main living space, he sees a pair of her tennis shoes left carelessly in front of the sofa. Probably toed off at some point during the last time they had… well.

So small, they're so _small_ , not even as long as the span of his hand, and how… how can such life-altering _wonderfulness_ be contained in such a diminutive package? He stares at them for a moment, suddenly unable to breathe, his chest as painful and constricted as if he'd just been _kicked_ there.

 _Jane_ …

Without any rational thought at all, he stoops and picks one up, then wanders on.

He ends up in the fencing room, of course. It's _her_ favorite room of the entire apartment –

And _because_ it's her favorite, now it's his too.

She has… colored every aspect of his life… arrowed past his defenses, burrowed under his skin, into his mind, into his _heart_ … changed his opinions on matters both large and small, right down to his favorite room in his own home. Changed his priorities, his perspective, his… she's made him more, _better_ , than he was before. A better man.

It had happened fast, but it had happened _completely_. And if he loses her, he loses _all_ of that.

It'll destroy him.

Algernon must have known that, and Gunther wonders distantly which one of them he'd _really_ been trying to kill.

Probably both of them – one directly, the other by extension – because Algernon never does anything by halves. And who's to say he hasn't succeeded?

He runs his hand along the foils nestled in their rack, the sneaker and the tee-shirt still dangling from his other fist. He thinks distantly of Linus, the little cartoon boy who trails his security blanket behind him everywhere he goes.

Right now he's trailing her running shoe, the shirt that was the last thing she wore before… before they got dressed and went out and… he's clutching these small talismans because they're all he can put his hands on at the moment. But the larger truth is that _Jane_ is his security blanket.

He needs her. Oh holy shit, he needs her so Christing _much_.

Completely overcome, his legs go out from under him. He slides down the wall to sit hard on the glossy wood floor. He brings up his knees, drapes the shirt over them, then buries his face in it, in the protected little Jane-scented space it makes. Setting the shoe gently down beside him, he laces his hands together on top of his head, fingers tangling in his unkempt hair, and just…

Tries to breathe. She'd want him to breathe.

 _Jane_.

* * *

 _His head had been spinning when he'd stepped off Dragon onto the curb outside his building. It always spun right after a ride on Jane's bike, even though they'd been together almost six months now and this was no longer a new experience. He went out with her often enough, in fact, that he'd invested in his own helmet and leathers._

 _Still – he'd never lost the rush he associated with his very first ride, snugged up behind Jane, arms wrapped tightly around her waist._ It's the best feeling in the world, _she'd told him the night they'd met,_ the next best thing to flying – _and she'd been_ right _._

 _It was absolutely intoxicating._

 _He'd removed his helmet and pushed up_ her _visor; she'd still had one leg thrown over the bike, Dragon purring gently beneath her. "Come upstairs," he'd urged her, not ready to say goodbye._

 _He was_ never _ready to say goodbye._

 _He never_ will _be._

 _She'd smiled - he couldn't see her mouth at the moment, but could tell by the way it had crinkled her eyes - but she'd given her head a little shake. "Meeting Pepper for a late lunch," she'd said, her voice slightly muffled by her dark green helmet. "I_ could _be persuaded to drop back by your dork hole tonight, though… if you ask nicely."_

 _Grinning, he'd angled his head severely to the side and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose through the window where her visor had been. "You know you can't resist the lure of the dork hole," he'd teased. "I'll see you in a bit. Be safe." And he'd pulled the visor back down into place._

 _She'd pressed a gloved hand briefly to his cheek in farewell, then kicked off from the curb, taking advantage of a rare break in traffic._

 _He'd stood there, watching; he_ always _watched her out of sight when she was on Dragon, because GodDAMN she was a thing of beauty on that bike – and so he'd seen everything._

 _The white Lexus had come gunning out of the little service alley between Gunther's building and the next, angling directly for Jane, and he'd known in that instant, known_ absolutely _, who was at the wheel and that this was deliberate, pre-planned, that he'd been_ lying in wait – _possibly for hours._

 _Jane had seen him too, and had started to swerve – the doctors had said that her evasive action was probably the reason she hadn't been killed outright, instantly; that and the state-of-the-art body armor he'd gifted her on her birthday. But she hadn't been able to avoid the car completely, there hadn't been time._

 _He'd dropped his helmet and been running,_ sprinting _, moving faster than he'd ever moved in his life, before the impact had even happened._

 _When it did happen, he'd screamed her name so hard that the world had gone_ dark _for a second or two – but he'd never stopped running, closing the distance between them._

 _The Lexus had broadsided her, knocking her sideways. She'd flown clear of the bike, over the sidewalk, and slammed into the building across the street. The car had accelerated away, fishtailing in its haste, tires screeching, but Gunther hadn't even registered it, not really._

 _He had been focused on Jane._

 _Just Jane._

 _Oh sweet merciful_ Christ _, his Just Jane._

 _She'd actually been trying to push herself_ up _when he'd reached her, hurling himself to his knees beside her just in time to watch her collapse_ again _, crumpled on her side with her back to the building, one arm moving to wrap around herself, her other hand lifting to the side of her helmet before falling back to the ground._

 _"JANE!" He'd stretched right out beside her, facing her, hardly even aware of the people converging around them, witnesses and passers-by; he'd had, just barely, the presence of mind to shout over his shoulder, "someone call 911!"_

 _He'd heard not one, but several voices answer in the affirmative, and that was all he'd needed. Everything else had ceased to exist after that; only Jane had been real to him._

 _He'd reached out to push her visor back up with shaking fingers – (had mere seconds passed since the last time he'd done this, when everything had been fine, when_ she _had been fine!? Could that really be so? It felt as though ten lifetimes had spiraled out since then) – and the instant he'd seen her eyes he'd known she was already fading, and –_

 _OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD JANE NO FUCK_ NO _._

 _She'd still been aware, though, still cognizant, and he'd seen that she knew too, knew as well as_ he _did who had done this to her; there was no need to waste breath, or words, on that._

 _"Gunther," she'd breathed, barely audible._

 _"Here," he'd gasped, reaching through the space where her visor had been to touch her face. "Holy_ HELL _, Jane." It had been all he could think of to say; his mind had been blank with shock, reeling with horror._

 _"Off," she'd whispered. "Gunther, get… it off, I can't…b… bree..."_

 _He'd unbuckled the helmet's chin-strap, taking twice as long as he should have because his fingers were clumsy, nerveless and numb; then had tugged the helmet off of her, as gently as he could, slipping a hand beneath her head to ease it back down to the ground._

 _"Thank you," she'd sighed, and then something else that he hadn't caught because Christ, oh_ Christ _, she'd been fading so fast._

 _"Jane." He'd brushed a couple of stray curls off her face – most of her hair was contained in a single, thick braid, as it usually was when she rode. "Help is coming, hold on."_

 _She'd blinked hard a couple of times, then had reached for him with shaking fingers. "Heart," she'd whispered. "Gunther, ov…over your…"_

 _His brow had creased for a second, trying to figure out what she was asking for, what she_ needed _from him – and then he'd understood._

 _He'd peeled the thick, protective leather glove off her hand and yanked down the zipper of his own leather jacket, then pressed her palm, hard, to his chest._

 _"Steady," she'd breathed._

 _"Yes." His voice had been oddly constricted. "Jane –"_

 _"Hurts."_

 _"I know. I know it does. Can you hear the sirens? They're almost here."_

 _She'd swallowed, her eyes starting to drift shut. "S'okay… Gunther."_

 _"No, no it's_ not _, but it will be._ You _will be. Jane? I've_ got _you."_

 _Remarkably,_ unbelievably _, her lips had quirked into the ghost of a smile. "I know. You've had me sin… since…"_

 _She'd exhaled one more word that might have been_ rose _. And then her body had relaxed and he'd been screaming her name as emergency services had arrived on the scene and hauled him backward, away from her, and her eyes had closed, and –_

* * *

And they haven't opened again since.

He has absolutely no memory of contacting Pepper, but he supposes he must have done so because they'd arrived at the hospital at almost the same time – Gunther having been detained at the scene by police. They'd insisted on taking his statement _right then_ despite the fact that he'd been practically incoherent in his wild need to follow Jane.

At least, afterward, one of them had taken pity on him and driven him over. Had he phoned Pepper from the vehicle? That seems the likeliest scenario.

He'd barely been into the lobby when he'd heard her shouting his name, turned in time to nearly be bowled over by her. She'd virtually launched herself into his arms, hysterical, screaming questions at him that he didn't have the answers to – he'd just been repeating the same thing over and over again, dazed, _stupefied;_ "it was him, it was him, fucking _Christ_ , Pepper, it was him."

And then there'd been nothing to do, for a _long_ time, but wait.

Jane had already been in surgery by then, they'd soon learned.

Because she'd managed to swerve, at least partially, she hadn't lost her leg – which she certainly would have if Algernon had struck her fully broadside as he'd intended. Then again, if things had gone as Algernon had intended, she'd have been dead, so perhaps it's moot.

It _is_ broken, though – the leg. _Badly_ broken, in more places than one. She has a fractured clavicle and broken ribs too, one of which grazed a lung. Internal bleeding. And she'd impacted that wall so hard that the doctors have even bandied about the term _brain damage_.

Gunther doesn't believe that. He can't believe that.

He _won't_ believe that.

He refuses.

Pepper must have put out more calls because others had begun to arrive, clustering together in the waiting room; Jethro. Rake. Jester and Bunny, newly a couple. Then _Bunny_ must have put out some calls of her own because the next thing he'd known, his aunts had been there too.

He hadn't done anything that first night except sit in a hard plastic chair with his head in his hands; hadn't spoken, hadn't even looked up as far as he can remember. When someone – he cannot say _who_ , not if his life depended on it – had pressed a Styrofoam coffee cup into his hand, he'd drunk the bitter liquid without comment.

That had been night one.

Following her second surgery, Jane had been placed in a medically induced coma.

She hasn't come out of it. Even though she _should_ have by now. Which means, he supposes, that she's lapsed into an _actual_ coma.

Sitting on the floor of his fencing room, Gunther shudders with despair.

The next few days had passed in a blur of grim-faced doctors and beeping machines, tongue-tied well-wishers and terrible hospital food, cold coffee and sleepless nights spent slouched in chairs that had made his back spasm. Until Pepper had sent him away, had sent him… home.

Except it doesn't feel like home, not anymore. Not without Jane. Which is crazy, because despite his incessant cajoling, she has never actually moved in. All right, so she spends about half the nights of the week here, and when she's _not_ here, he's usually with her in her flat, but still… how can someone make a place they _don't actually live in_ feel like home? To the point where their absence… _sterilizes_ it, somehow?

He doesn't know, and the ability for analytical thought has all but deserted him. He only knows it's true, and that it's breaking his heart.

He raises his head and blinks stupidly. Dusk has fallen; when did _that_ happen? The room, for all its expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, is sinking into darkness. He sits for a while longer, staring sightlessly out at the cityscape spread before and below him as the myriad lights come twinkling on.

He's exhausted.

 _Exhausted_.

The force of it hits him suddenly, and it hits him hard. He's swamped with it, nearly _drugged_ with it; he needs to rest.

But he doesn't want to go down to the bedroom with its overlarge, cold bed, and isn't entirely sure he'd make it that far, even if he did. He crawls the short distance to the nearer strip of padding that cuts the hardwood floor lengthwise, taking the shoe and tee-shirt with him.

He collapses onto the padded strip and rolls onto his back, looking bleakly up at the ceiling. Is there anything he needs to do before he goes under? Any other calls to make?

On his second full day in the hospital, Gunther had recovered enough of his wits to start… handling the various matters that had needed handling. The first thing he'd done had been to arrange for the repair of the motorcycle. Jane will be wanting her dragon back. There is no acceptable scenario in which she won't.

None.

That done, he'd moved on to… larger things.

The fact that the vehicle which had struck Jane does in fact belong to Algernon had been quickly established beyond doubt. The entire incident had been caught on Gunther's own security cameras, which are mounted all along the front façade of the Kippernium; and a closer shot, including a clear plate-number, had been captured by a quick-thinking witness on her cell phone.

The arrogant bastard hadn't even made an _attempt_ to hide his identity.

And for all of that, he has yet to be found.

Gunther knows the police are looking. He respects that. He does.

But the police are localized, and he very much doubts that Algernon will have stayed local. Algernon has money, resources, connections. He might not even be in the country any longer, despite the fact that he wasn't booked onto any commercial flights in the hours or days following his attack on Jane.

He's probably somewhere sunny, working on his tan and congratulating himself – he may not even know that Jane survived. Or – _far_ more chilling in its implications – perhaps he _does_. There had been press surrounding the incident, of course.

But Gunther has money, resources and connections too. More, he'd be willing to hazard a bet, even than Algernon.

And so he'd placed some calls.

There are people looking for Algernon now – a good _many_ people, actually – who answer to Gunther alone. Dedicated, highly skilled, resourceful and _ruthless_ people, and he's given them a blank check to scour the _world_ if necessary. Algernon can run, but he can't hide – at least, not indefinitely.

Oh, they'll find him. It's just a question of when.

And he has a second blank check set by for when that day comes, so as to call in a different sort of… specialist.

Jane will recover. She will because she has to. He _needs_ her to. And Gunther will not run any – _any_ – risk of Algernon _ever_ hurting her again. The Algernon problem needs to be solved once and for all.

And it will be.

But no, there's nothing he needs to do on that front right at the moment. Right now it's time to rest.

He rolls onto his side, wads up the shirt for a cushion. With the sneaker in one hand and his phone in the other, he closes his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

He sees her, though. Even with his eyes shut, he sees her.

He sees her in that un-fucking- _believable_ dress, with ropes of pearls in her hair.

Sees her gulping down her drink in a fit of nerves, so charmingly out of her element at that gala even though she'd put every other woman there to shame.

He sees her punching Algernon square in the face, breaking his nose and laying him out flat with a single, effortless-looking blow.

Sees her beneath him on his bed that first night, gown ripped asunder in a shower of scales; her hair haloed out around her, eyes so dark with desire they'd been nearly black. Face flushed and filmed with perspiration, their hands entwined as they'd moved together, seeking their mutual release.

He sees her hiding from him the next morning, face buried his old, soft shirt, the same one that's cushioning _his_ head now, and he'd been so afraid – _terrified_ , in fact – that she would bolt, but she hadn't. She hadn't, and he's thanked God every day since.

She's so brave. Braver than him by half, the bravest person he knows.

He sees her in her fencing gear, pulling off the face mask and shaking out her hair, smug after defeating him; hears a snatch of banter echoing in the dark, empty space.

 _Well don't you look just_ SO _proud of yourself? What do you say we make the next match more interesting?_

 _Oho, a wager? What did you have in mind, Gunther Breech?_

 _If I win, you have to spend another night in my dork hole._

 _And if_ I _win?_

 _If_ you _win_ – he'd flashed her a positively wicked little grin – _I get to spend another night in_ yours _._

Her eyes had widened in mock outrage. _Those seem like heavily weighted odds, sir. And here I took you for a gentleman._ She'd saluted him sharply with her foil, then yanked her mask back on and dropped into dueling stance. _En garde!_

He sees her on Dragon, the first time he'd ridden with her. She must have read the trepidation in his eyes because as she'd passed him her spare helmet, she'd caught his face in her other hand and pulled him down to press a lingering kiss on his lips. _Gunther,_ she'd murmured, _I've got you._

Sees her banging around in his kitchen, preparing a meal for the two of them, and she's a good cook – _surprisingly_ so, given the long hours she spends at work, and her many recreational pursuits. She's at home so relatively little, when the _hell_ had she found the time to hone her culinary skills!? It's slightly unfair how amazing she is. She does have difficulty with proportions, though – half the time she cooks for him there are leftovers, and the other half he has to throw together a quick salad to augment the meal because there isn't quite enough to go around… but he can't complain because shit, _he_ can't cook at _all_.

He sees her in her office at DraCo the first time he'd visited her there, looking every inch the high-power executive. With her neat, conservative pencil skirt, her hair pinned up and demure little pearl studs in her ears, she'd driven him instantly _wild_ with lust. He'd locked the door behind himself and backed her up against her desk, lifting her onto it and taking her then and there - until she'd reversed their positions and taken _him_ right back. It had been well worth the expression on Pepper's face – smugness edging toward bonafide _gloating_ – when they'd emerged, rather tousled, a full hour later.

He sees her sweat-slick and grinning after a particularly demanding jog they'd taken together, face flushed and eyes alight and damp tendrils of flame-colored hair sticking to her temples and her neck – remembers thinking _beautiful… beautiful._

Sees her sitting across the table from him in the intimate little restaurant he'd taken her to on their one-month anniversary, clad in that spellbinding midnight-blue cocktail dress, her freckled nose crinkling in distaste when he'd suggested cheesecake for dessert. He'd laughed out loud at her expression – how on earth could something be so endearing and so _arousing_ all at once!? It had made him want to _kiss_ her wrinkled-up nose... and then the corner of her mouth... and then the little hollow at the base of her throat... and then... but _criminy_ , at the same time – what kind of _freak_ dislikes _cheesecake!?_

He sees her – hell, he can almost _feel_ her – nestled up against him on the sofa in an old tee-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, that time they'd both been nursing colds at the same time and had spent an _entire day_ binge-watching the second season of Stranger Things. Eight consecutive hours of guzzling tea and holding onto each other and shouting " _don't go IN there!_ " at the screen with their hoarse, scratchy head-cold voices.

He sees her opening her birthday present, the way she'd gotten it halfway unwrapped and then gone suddenly stock still, eyes widening in shocked incredulity. Jane is neither stupid nor naive, and she is _very_ well-versed in the world of motorcycle gear. She'd known what she was looking at, had known its worth. She'd tried to refuse the gift, calling it too much, too extravagant, but he'd insisted.

He thinks… no, he _knows_... that talking her into accepting that armor is the single most important, the most pivotal and _crucial_ , thing he's ever done in his life.

He sees her impacting the side of that building and then crumpling to the sidewalk. Trying to push herself back up – dear fucking God, where does she _get_ such reserves of strength and will? – only to collapse _again._

Sees the paramedics working on her, the horrifyingly grim expressions on their faces; sees her being maneuvered onto a stretcher and bundled into the ambulance, and he hadn't been able to go with her because the police had needed to talk to him and he has never – he has _never_ – been so bereft as he was in that moment.

He sees her lying pale and broken in the hospital bed. Sees the tubes and the monitors and the bandages and the wires and… holy hell, there's more medical equipment than there is _Jane._

He curls up tighter, cradling her running shoe to his chest, and finally manages to fall into a fitful sort of half-sleep. He startles back to full consciousness a couple of times when his phone goes off, but it isn't Pepper so he doesn't answer.

Eventually his breathing evens out and he manages to sink into a state at least approximating true rest.

* * *

 _Jane is laughing, head thrown back, delighted._

 _They're swinging._

 _There's an oversized swing in the park, just off a jogging trail they frequent, that can easily seat two adults, and they've swung on it before_ – _most memorably the time they'd arranged themselves face to face, with Jane straddling his lap._

 _This time is different though; they're sitting in the more common configuration, side-by-side, but this time they're going… really high. REALLY high._

 _Higher than they've ever gone before, so high he can barely see the ground._

 _Gunther finds this distinctly unsettling, but Jane is in her element, loving it._

 _So he tries to relax and just… enjoy the ride._

 _It isn't happening, though._

 _Especially when she gives him that sideways look of hers, grins from ear to ear, and says, "Ready?"_

 _"Ready for_ what? _" he asks, although he has a sinking feeling that he already knows the answer -_

 _And he's right._

 _She rolls her eyes as if he's being deliberately obtuse_ – _and, he supposes, he is._

 _Sunlight and shade dapple her face, creating constantly changing patterns of light across her skin as they swing back and forth, back and forth. It's almost hypnotic._

 _It's almost_ dizzying. _His stomach turns over._

 _"Ready to_ jump _," she says emphatically. "Together on three."_

 _"Jane, no."_

 _"It'll be just like flying. One."_

 _"Jane, NO! We're too high!"_

 _"Don't be a ninny, Gunther." She grabs his hand, twines her fingers through his. "I've_ got _you. Two."_

 _"Are you_ insane?! _For God's sake,_ stop! _"_

 _She locks gazes with him again, and all of the good humor is gone from her face. There's such a deep and desperate sadness in her eyes now, it takes his breath away. "I don't have a choice," she says. "It's time. I'm doing this with or without you." She leans in, presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, and simultaneously pulls her hand free of his. "I love you, Gunther. THREE!"_

 _They've just reached the apex of the swing's upward arc, and she launches herself into the air._

 _"Jane, no! NO!_ JANE! _"_

 _The swing carries him backward and down, and he's lost her, he's_ lost _her, God, what was he_ thinking _, letting go of her, letting her make that leap alone? Fucking Christ_ –

 _"JANE!"_

 _And he's standing in her hospital room. Jane looks the same, looks the way she's looked since it happened, pale and still, hooked up to more machines and monitors than he can count, and yet something is different, something has changed, he can sense it._

 _He_ knows _it._

 _He sinks down on the edge of her bed and takes her nearer hand in his, careful not to disturb the IV line. He hates it, he_ hates _it, all the tubes and wires snaking from her body, it's so invasive. It's such a_ violation _._

 _He wants to rip them all away from her, to_ free _her from them, but he knows he can't. They are what's sustaining her. She'd die without them._

But she's dying anyway _._

 _That's what is different, that is the change he can feel in the air._

 _"Jane," he croaks, "don't go."_

 _They haven't had long enough. Not even close. They're just getting started, for fuck's sake. They were supposed to have… forever. And that, Gunther senses, is at the core of why Algernon had done this to her. To_ them _. Because they're the real deal, he and Jane, and that sick_ bastard _hadn't been able to stand it._

 _"JANE."_

 _She doesn't move, doesn't respond at all in any discernible way, but one of the monitors starts beeping alarmingly. Gunther jerks his head toward it, then back to her still face._

 _"Don't do this, Jane."_

 _A second alarm joins the first._

 _Then a third._

 _They're creating an ear-splitting cacophony._

 _"Jane, you_ can't _." He tightens his grip on her, IV line be damned. "You can't go. I've got you. I've got you." He raises her hand to his lips, repeating those three words over and over again, but before he can kiss it as he'd intended, the doctors rush into the room and they're surrounding her, pulling_ him _away._

 _Because he doesn't have her, he doesn't, they're just empty, meaningless words. And as this knowledge crashes over him the heart monitor flatlines, and Jane, Jane, Jane,_ JANE –

 _He's struggling to reach her again, and FUCK the doctors, they're not helping anyhow, in fact they're shaking their heads and turning away, they're_ giving up on her _and he wants to rip them to pieces for that, but he wants to reach Jane more, and the alarms are ringing in his ears, ringing, they're ringing, they're_ –

* * *

Ringing.

His phone.

It's ringing.

Vibrating in his hand and ringing, ringing, _ringing_.

"Wha…"

He pries his eyes open, sees that the fencing room is awash in daylight again. Blearily, achingly, he pushes himself into a sitting position, confused by the blanket that slides from his shoulders to pool around his waist.

Where did… wait… he hadn't gotten a… _what?_

Before he can puzzle any further at the mystery of the blanket, though, his mind is returned to his incessantly ringing phone. Because…

He's been anticipating a phone call… hasn't he? Well, that's not exactly right; it's more like he's been _steeling_ himself for one. He's been… uh…

His thought process is so terribly, grindingly _slow_.

 _Pepper_.

That's it. If anything changed… with Jane… then Pepper, Pepper had promised to…

He brings the phone up, squints at the screen.

It's Pepper.

It's PEPPER.

Gunther fumbles to accept the call but his fingers are clumsy, half with sleep and half with sudden panic, and Christ, oh Christ, he just – _can't_ –

By the time he manages to hit _accept_ the call has been terminated. Shaking now, practically growling with frustration, he starts to call her back – but before he can, a text comes through instead.

It's five words, all caps, his misspelled name a testament to Pepper's haste.

 _GUNHTER GET BACK HERE NOW_

After that, he's just… moving.

He scrambles to his feet, nearly over-balances, manages to catch himself in the bare nick of time. Takes a step, tangles his feet in the blanket, almost goes sprawling _again_. Cursing, he kicks his way free; spies a full water bottle a couple of feet away from where he'd been lying, snatches it up – he's _ragingly_ thirsty – and runs for the elevator.

Scrawled on the side of the bottle in Sharpie is a succinct message:

 _Take a shower. You stink. Love you, cuz._ – _L_

Lavinia. She'd flown over from the continent the moment word had reached her, and has been staying, of course, in one of the guest suites. Mystery solved; she's the one who'd covered him.

He gulps down the water, emptying the bottle in four swallows as he waits for the elevator. He spends the ride down to ground level cursing the slow pace of nearly-hundred-year-old machinery, and shouting into his phone for a car. Gunther _never_ takes this tone with his staff, but the woman on front desk duty takes it in stride. They all know what he's going through, and they all love Jane. A casual visitor wouldn't notice it (or at least, recent guest reviews haven't reflected it) but a definite pall has settled over the Kippernium Hotel.

Then he's sprinting across the lobby and to hell with the shocked stares he elicits (on the off-chance that this qualifies as an actual disturbance, his PR people will handle it masterfully, he has no doubt) – he's skidding to the curb, virtually _throwing_ himself into the waiting car and shouting at the driver to _GO,_ _ **GO**_ _!_ in a voice that's frayed almost to the breaking point.

The driver, being an employee of the hotel, doesn't need to ask where.

* * *

He's panting when he careens through the door to her room, hair hanging in his wild eyes.

Pepper had been sitting in a chair pulled up to Jane's bedside, holding her hand, but when she sees Gunther she rockets to her feet and throws herself into his arms, face crumpling, breath hitching, dissolving completely into nearly hysterical tears.

Gunther actually staggers back a step, unprepared for her full weight to be hurled against him like that. His eyes are everywhere, frantic, scanning the monitors one after another, noting the distinct lack of any medical professionals in the room, taking in Jane herself, but nothing looks different from when he'd left.

Yet Pepper is sobbing almost convulsively onto his shoulder and what – the actual – _fuck_ is going on here?!

He isn't even aware at first that he's started repeating her name in a steadily rising voice.

"Pepper! _Pepper!_ " He grips her gently but firmly by the shoulders and pushes her away to arm's length, holding her there and then actually giving her a little shake. He's beside himself, goddamnit, he needs _information_.

"PEPPER! WHAT!? What's _happening!?_ "

"Gunth – Gunther –" she can barely compose herself enough to answer. "She opened her eyes!"

His knees nearly buckle. " _When?_ " He croaks.

Pepper swipes a shaking hand across her tear-soaked, splotchy face. Her nose is running. "Right before I tried to reach you, of course. What was that… twenty minutes ago?"

"How long? How long was she –?"

"Not even a minute." Pepper takes a deep, shuddery breath. "She didn't talk. But she saw me. She squeezed my hand. And then she was looking around, I – I think she was looking for _you_. Then she…" Pepper waves a hand vaguely. "It was over. Fast. But… the doctors said –" she breaks down sobbing again. "The doc… doctors said… she's just suh-suh- _sleeping_ now. Just _sleeping,_ Gunther! She's out… out of…"

He pulls her back in against him, folding her into a brief, hard embrace… then disengages, crossing the room to where Jane lies, still so motionless, so deathly _white_ , that he'd never guess anything had changed if Pepper hadn't told him so.

He drops into the chair that Pepper so recently vacated and leans close over Jane, slipping one hand into hers and bringing the other up to smooth her hair back from her face, toying with her curls.

God _above_ , he loves those curls.

And then she's looking at him. Her eyes are open and she's _looking_ at him, her gaze steady and calm, and oh so beautifully _lucid_ , and the floor lurches beneath him and he feels like he's falling, but he knows that isn't right. The truth is, he's been in freefall for _days_ and he's only now coming out of it, downward momentum finally arrested, because –

Jane is here.

Not just her battered body, but _Jane_ , Jane _herself_ , is finally back with him.

 _She's got him_.

The relief is… profound.

Her voice is nothing but a hoarse, cracked whisper, but he still thinks it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard when she breathes, "hey… dork."

He tries to answer her, but he can't. There is, quite suddenly, an iron band around his chest and he can barely _breathe_ , let alone speak. She frowns slightly.

"Gunther… don't cry."

Cry? Is he? Actually, finally _crying?_ Distantly, he realizes that maybe he is. He's not going to let go of her to wipe at the sudden wetness on his cheeks, though. He's not going to let go of her for _anything_ , ever again.

Instead he slides out of the chair, never releasing her hand as he lands hard on his knees beside the bed.

"Marry me," he gasps.

And his Just Jane smiles.


End file.
